Voodoo Girl, Part V

The Storyteller (8:05:37 PM): It was three days later that Jay and Deb accompanied Whim to the top of the Prudential Insurance Building. They showed up in the lobby, as curious a company as one could imagine. Whim had dressed in what was probably best described as "don't freak out the norms" clothing, baggy cargo pants, a sweatshirt, and most of her epilepsy-inducing hair was stuffed under a baseball cap. She stillgot looks from people who passed by. Deborah, wearing work-jeans and a t-shirt, was a little bit miffed about that. All three of you were carrying an assortment of objects, which in Ilkin's case was a pair of actual drums in a large bag.
The Storyteller (8:07:05 PM): Whim didn't bother to flash show any ID, just making for the service elevators with the air of one who knew where she was going and was obviously supposed to be here. ||
Ilkin (8:08:29 PM): "She just gets the looks because she's got green hair," Jay whispered to Deb, "Remember, you're dating one of London's most eligible." He flashed a cheeky grin and then followed Whim's lead. ||
The Storyteller (8:12:34 PM): The look that Church cast at Ilkin was eloquent. I appreciate the sentiment, but look at her. So it was in a mild fit of envy that Deborah entered the service elevator, followed shortly by Ilkin.
The Storyteller (8:12:35 PM): "I hate baseball caps, but people stare at you if you wear a top hat in an office building." Whim commented as the doors closed, taking the offending object in question off. "Thanks again for being backup drummers. I owe you guys." ||
Ilkin (8:13:54 PM): "Anytime," Jay replied, "Deb's gradually been learning about our world and this'll make for an interesting hands-on project." ||
The Storyteller (8:18:50 PM): "No better place to start than with spooks. Who you gonna call? Ghostbusters." Whim said with a cheery grin. "What I'd do for a Proton Pack..."
The Storyteller (8:18:57 PM): "What I'ddo for a little helicopter minigun that works on ghosts." Deborah said, wistfully recalling the days of being able to shred several acres of unoffending vegetation with thousand-bullet-per-minute autocannon. "So what's the plan, settling Kincaid's unfinished business?"
The Storyteller (8:18:59 PM): "Nah. Tried that, saw how that worked out." Whim said, rubbing the side of her head. Her hair hid most of the wound, but there was still some bandages there. "I'm just going to ask Maman Brigitte and then we're going to kick Kincaid's ass up between his ears." ||
Ilkin (8:19:55 PM): "You realize," Ilkin said, "I don't know any Death magic? Or much real combat magic." ||
The Storyteller (8:20:43 PM): "Well, what can you do?" Whim said, still perfectly cheerful at the prospect of getting some much desired payback. ||
Ilkin (8:24:14 PM): "I'm Acanthus," Jay said brightly, "I can wish you good luck and rewind time a touch. I can also shoot a gun." ||
The Storyteller (8:26:59 PM): "I can shoot, or pilot just about anything, not sure how useful that is here." Deborah added.
The Storyteller (8:27:04 PM): "Perfect. I'll give your guns a bit of ectoplasmic resonance, you'll be able to shoot Spooky, no problem." Whim said. ||
Ilkin (8:27:26 PM): "I suppose I ought to enact a spell." (Sense Consciousness)
(8:30:21 PM)Ilkin (8:30:27 PM): ||
The Storyteller (8:32:49 PM): The elevator reached the top floor, which was presently unlocked. People just did not go up here very often. Whim opened it and stepped out onto the roof, followed shortly by Jay and Deborah.
The Storyteller (8:34:11 PM): The green-haired girl set her magic-working bag down, and DC the water mocassin slithered out of the bag. There was no ghost nearby, not that you could tell.
The Storyteller (8:34:12 PM): "Probably grabbed his anchor and vanished after the ward went down." Whim said, walking over to the veve, looking a bit the worse for wear after several days out in the elements. "So... either of you two have any musical talents whatsoever?" ||
Ilkin (8:35:00 PM): "I played a few instruments in high school," Jay said, setting his bag down.
Ilkin (8:35:02 PM): ||
(8:36:07 PM)The Storyteller (8:36:20 PM): "I can't carry a tune in a bucket." Deborah admitted ruefully.
The Storyteller (8:37:36 PM): "Marduk, you're our new ceremonial drummer. It usually takes a while to get to that rank in a proper société." Whim said with a grin. "Just keep a nice, fast beat when I tell you too, alright?" ||
Ilkin (8:40:41 PM): "Charmed, I'm sure," Jay said cheekily, "I'll be ready at your command, mon capitan!"
(8:42:04 PM)The Storyteller (8:44:11 PM): Jay's first lesson into Louisiana Vodou rituals was the following: they were as long as any Mass.
The Storyteller (8:45:42 PM): Whim made sure the proper beat was set, then told Deborah where to stand, which the amused ex-RAF pilot followed. Then Whim took center stage, which began by reciting a long series of what sounded like rather familiar Catholic prayers, albeit in French.
The Storyteller (8:47:47 PM): From her bag, Whim withdrew a bowl and a bottle of water, filling the bowl and then pouring it at all the compass points, bowing and shaking what appeared to be a large rattle, also from her little bag of tricks. She pour the water thrice at the back of the veve and thrice at the front.
The Storyteller (8:49:54 PM): The next step involved another chant, now in some half-French, half-English, all-Creole tongue which Ilkin could not even begin to decipher. What he did note was that the air was growing thick with some kind of presence, or perhaps presences would be the better term. They hung in the air, vast, but not quite incomprehensible, waiting the word from this odd-looking caplata.
The Storyteller (8:52:45 PM): "Papa legba, ouvri baye-a pou mwen. Pou mwen pase. Le ma tounen, ma salyie lwa you." Still speaking in Creole, Whim doffed her sweatshirt and took from the bag a cage with two live doves. They were not to be live for so very much longer. Whim took the rattle and beat it against the veve, once, twice, and a third time.
The Storyteller (8:55:27 PM): It was then that Jay felt one of those waiting presences move downwards, into Whim. The green-haired girl shuddered, twitching as though tormented. Then she opened her eyes, and spoke, her voice lower than before. "I am here. You can stop your drumming, boy, I'm here." ||
Ilkin (8:58:01 PM): "Well, then," Jay had nothing else to say, really. He'd never met a loa before. He set the drums aside and stood up. "How d'you do?" ||
The Storyteller (9:00:50 PM): "Thirsty, hungry. Girl, the bag, didn't my horse tell you anything?" Whim... or the person who was Whim at the moment, said. Deborah scrambled and passed the goth Moros a bottle of rum, one in which peppers were being pickled, and some salted peanuts. And of course, a packet of strong cigarettes. This could not have been doing Whim's lungs any good, assuming any of the normal rules applied. Having eaten and drunk, and smoking now, the spirit turned to Jay and Deb. "So you're the techne-caster who wants to turn this lady into one of yours?" ||
Ilkin (9:03:39 PM): "Techne-caster," Ilkin mused. "I suppose that's one way to put it. Indeed, I think Deb here has what it takes to Awaken." He eyed possessed-Whim up and down, then glanced at Deb. "She's been catching on well," he beamed with pride at his girlfriend. ||
The Storyteller (9:07:01 PM): "Mortals never learn. Well, boy, keep this mambo of mine breathing today, and I'll do you a good turn." Whim said, or the Lwa possessing Whim did. The green-haired girl looked at Deb, who returned the gaze as levelly as possible. "Right then, where's the spectre? Come on out, this place is cold for me, so let's git this done and go home." ||
The Storyteller (10:52:16 PM): The Lwa took Whim's consecrated rattle and shook it into the sky, speaking some distant words in French-Creole, a dim little whisper across the sky. There was a sudden gust of wind, and a pale piece of paper rushed through the sky, falling to the ground in front of Whim. It was the photograph. Then Ilkin could sense another presence, and the spectre of Henri Kincaid crossed Ilkin's senses. The spirit materialized, forced by Whim's, or the Lwa's magics, taking the form of a handsome Afro-Caribbean man in his mid-thirties... save for the way his skin was cracked all over, and droplets of ephemeral blood dripped to the ground.
The Storyteller (10:54:08 PM): "Henri, time to head on home, boy." The Lwa said, not unkindly. Kincaid... did not take the words well. [Roll Initiative!] ||
(10:56:19 PM)The Storyteller (11:01:43 PM): The ghost shuddered to life, his skin falling away in a grisly display of just how he had died. Death by falling from a building was never pretty, but now, it reached out into your hind-brains, touched by a cold hand. [Roll Resolve+Composure!]
(11:09:03 PM)Ilkin (11:11:03 PM): Deb had seen worse in her days as a field medic and shook off the ghost's compulsion. What did reach her "hind-brain" was her boyfriend running screaming off somewhere. She made a brief note to poke at him for it later, then squared her hips, raised her gun in both hands, and fired. ||
(11:13:15 PM)The Storyteller (11:15:23 PM): The bullet passed through the ghost without stopping, but not harmlessly. The spectre seemed to waver as though a heat-mirage, out of focus for a moment, not quite there. Then Whim stepped up to the plate, calling out and clapping her hands once, twice, three times. Spectral chains clasped around the ghosts arms and legs, binding them tightly.
The Storyteller (11:16:57 PM): The ghost arched its back, and then spun rapidly about in one place, forming a small whirlwind despite the chains. Whim was knocked to her feet, the Lwa's metaphysical mass not a help against a purely physical wind. ||
(11:17:52 PM)Ilkin (11:18:35 PM): I'm shooting a ghost, Deb thought briefly. Very briefly. But the thought was overshadowed by the need to deal with this thing before it dealt with her. So she kept her stance and fired again! ||
(11:22:38 PM)Ilkin (11:23:33 PM): I am never living this down. Jay skidded to a stop, turned on a heel, and dashed back into the fray. He raised his gun and, determiend to redeem himself at least somewhat, fired. ||
The Storyteller (11:26:03 PM): The ghost... fizzled. It just seemed to fray apart, unravelling like so-so many balls of twine. It was a quiet final resting. The photograph's destruction was less quiet, as the piece of paper burst into flames, consumed to ash in mere moments.
The Storyteller (11:29:37 PM): "Not bad, girl. Not bad." Whim said, still in that too-deep voice of hers. "May not be doing you any favors, but visit the Ten in at the edge of Vilokan." With that, Whim's eyes rolled up in her skull, and the goth Moros swayed where she stood. ||
Ilkin (11:30:26 PM): Jay holstered his hand cannon and hurried forward to try and catch Whim if she fell. "Well, that takes care of that," he murmured. ||
The Storyteller (11:31:22 PM): "Mm-hmm...." Whim said dreamily. She fell forward, into Ilkin's hands, wrapping a languid arm over his neck. She was completely out of it.
The Storyteller (11:32:05 PM): "So, rescuing the damsel after Ido all the hard work?" Deborah said with a broad grin, observing the very pretty, half-naked girl wrapped around Ilkin. ||
Ilkin (11:32:36 PM): Jay did something he rarely did. He blushed. And for once in his life seemed completely at a loss for words. ||